Tag: TRAVEL

As you may have gathered from my last post, we really enjoyed Nashville. But we had a bourbon tour a-waiting for us in Louisville, Kentucky, so at 7am on Saturday morning, we jumped in the car and headed towards Louisville to meet our tour with a half hour to spare.

Or so we thought.

When we plugged the address into our trusty iPhone maps we were horrified to find it put our arrival time at half an hour after we needed to be there. There was a one-hour time difference between Nashville and Louisville. This was disastrous. Louisville was our last stop and the sole purpose of our one-day stay there was to hit the Bourbon Trail.

Now, before you go judging our travel naivety, please let me just show you a map of the drive from Nashville to Louisville and then you decide whether you would have thought to check for time differences. Go on. Be honest.

Anyway, we spent the two and a half hour trip on the phone with the tour company trying to work out how we might be able to meet up with the group, without leaving our car stranded at some boutique, craft distillery in the middle of Nowhereville, Kentucky.

In the end, it was determined that we could make it to the first stop in time to meet up with the group, so Hoff made the chivalrous gesture of dropping me there, and forgoing the rest of the tour so he could take the car back to Louisville and pick me up later. Whattaguy.

The ensuing bourbon experience was lovely, albeit a little lonely. And needless to say, the whole race to get there, and Hoff missing out, put a bit of a dampener on our day, especially after we had such a brilliant time in Nashville.

Maker’s Mark Distillery Grounds

Which unfortunately also put me in a bit of a broody mood on the whole, but particularly vis a vis, our children. Or more specifically, our separation from them.

The monkeys are only 3 and 5 so a two-week parting was always going to be a bit of a gamble. On both sides. Aside from the obvious, my fear was missing them too much and essentially ruining a good holiday with bad, moping moods.

And for their part, we left them with Hoff’s parents who live about 300m from the ocean, and they have a pool, and they have a thing called ‘second breakfast’. So there was a good chance they wouldn’t notice we were gone at all. But, you never know.

Mudjimba Beach

Add into the mix that by Louisville we were well and truly on the home stretch of our trip and, well, it was a tricky day, emotionally-speaking.

I don’t think it was any coincidence that the one full day I spent apart from Hoff was also the one day I struggled most being away from the kidlets. As it turned out, all of us – both the kids and I – were pretty much fine throughout our holiday apart from each other.

We chatted to them on FaceTime every day, which as anyone with preschoolers will know, is tricky. Despite the fact that increased screen time seems to be the ultimate goal of my five year old most days, FaceTime with his wayward parents didn’t quite seem to fit the bill.

Also embarrassingly, every time we had to FaceTime them in public, within earshot of Americans, they had this odd habit of coming out with the weirdest things, such as “Hey Mum, guess what, Grandma hasn’t checked the mail for three days because there’s a frog living in the letterbox!” Doing nothing for the Australian stereotype on the whole.

On this day though, I realised for me that any anxiety I had around being apart from the kids was probably being offset by the absolute pleasure I took from being in Hoff’s company for an extended amount of time; in reconnecting a little bit. It was the best. We had great conversations – finished them even, we shared new experiences and dissected them later, we had moments of doing our own thing and we had long periods of sitting together in silence, scrolling on our phones or reading, and taking absolute joy in the fact that would to do that, together. There was no work, no phone calls, no housework, no My Little Pony, no Hot Wheels, no cooking – at this point I’m legitimately unsure as to where my cutlery draw is located.

The point is, I’ve been giving a lot of thought as to whether I’d do it again – leave the kids for this long. And I think the answer is, yes, absolutely I would. But not for a long time. It has been a dream, a refresher and a bit of a CTRL – ALT – DELTE on our lives, which had become a little stressful of late. But because it has been so wonderful, at this point, I don’t feel the need to do it again any time soon. It really has felt like such a privilege and I really believe this will carry me through for a good long time.

That said, I can absolutely also see myself being back around my children for about 23 minutes before I surreptitiously begin Googling airfares and hotel deals.

The three-year-old fancies herself as a bit of a comedian, highlights of which include “Why did the cat and the dog climb the tree? Because they got hit by a car.”

And when we ask the five-year-old about his day, he generally recounts the plot of the latest animated garbage he watched on telly. Despite the fact that the other 12 waking hours of his day were probably filled with activities specifically design to plant magical childhood memories in his brain.

Following the tour, I felt instantly better once being reunited with Hoff. I resolved to enjoy my last night in Louisville, and the last night of our holiday. It was filled with more bourbon and fried chicken (Kentucky-style), and of course lots of lovely, lovely reflecting on how very lucky we’ve been.

Tina: Maybe what bothers me the most is that people say that Hillary (Clinton) is a bitch. And let me say something about that. Yeah. She is. And so am I. And so is this one.

Amy: [Nods in agreement] Yeah. Deal with it.

Tina: You know what? Bitches get stuff done.

Since then, Hoff and I have found ourselves doing the same. He might come home from work and find everything looking unusually organised and say “Wow! You’ve been a real bitch today!” Or I’ll say, “Honey – I can see the bottom of the dirty clothes basket!” and he’ll say, “What can I say? I’m a bitch.”

Anyway, prior to arriving in Nashville, we’d heard rumours that the downtown can be a bit ‘touristy’. Some lovely people even gave us some recommendations with a more local flair.

But as we were staying in downtown, and feeling a bit lazy, on our first night we decided to go and check it out anyway.

And. It . Was. Awesome.

So many people, so much music, so much fun and frivolity. So many groups of people celebrating special occasions wearing matching self-made t-shirts in honour of said special occasion.

We had the best time. We ate BBQ, we drank, we danced and we sang. We wandered down the street, listened to the live music floating out of bar windows and followed our ears to the ones we thought sounded best. And if we got sick of that one, we one upstairs – IN THE SAME PLACE – and listened to a different one. And then we did it all over again on our second night there.

I don’t know if that Tennessee Whisky had me feeling all warm and fuzzy (it is very smooth apparently), but I didn’t get a sense of any dirt-baggery either. Everybody just really seemed to be there to have a good time and enjoy the music. I wonder if that came down to the large cross-section of ages that seemed to be out having a good time. It could also be because Hoff and I never stayed out past 10.30pm because we ourselves are no spring chickens so perhaps this is not a peak dirt-baggery period.

Whatever the case, I decided that I liked the touristy downtown of Nashville. Probably because I am a tourist. And also – why should ‘touristy’ = bad anyway? If lots of people flock to a place, it must have some intrinsic appeal? Frankly, I’m tired of trying to find the ‘hidden gems’ and sites ‘off the beaten track’ and ‘away from the crowds’. It’s too much hard work. I’m on holidays.

So I’m taking back ‘touristy’. Would I recommend a night out in downtown Nashville? Hell yeah, I would. It’s super touristy.

You guys. You know how some people (monsters) don’t like puppies? Well… here goes… I’m not the hugest fan of country music. There, I said it.

I don’t know why. It could be my general preference to poetic and abstract lyrics over flat out narrative story-telling through song.

Or it could be because my high school boyfriend was a farmer and country music reminds me of when we used to go to B&S Balls together. The locals thought it would be funny to squirt food dye in my (peroxided) hair with water pistols because I was a city girl. Which ironically could be the name of my country music hit.

Regardless, I was still keen to see Nashville. It came highly recommended.

Given our slight change of itinerary in Memphis (see Joe Biden: Itinerary Wrecker to catch up), we hustled into Nashville and bolted to the pick up point of our first stop: a Nash Trash tour with ‘The Jugg Sisters’, Sheri Lynn and Brenda Kay.

I’d booked the tour because 1500 people on Trip Advisor said it was excellent and also I was keen to start our stay in Nashville by getting to know the city in a re-purposed school bus that’d been painted hot pink.

And it did give us a pretty good insight to Nashville for the most part. Especially if we had a particular interest in any and all locations that might have a vague association with Burt Reynolds. The sisters were big fans.

The ladies were also particularly excited when they found out we were from Australia. They told us that they’d had Karl Stefanovic on their tour once, in his Today hosting capacity, and then they proceeded to list all the Australian landmarks at which they’d like to bang him.

Then we went from the hot pink bus to the Man in Black – the Johnny Cash Museum. It should’ve been quite the departure but towards the end of the tour I learned that the man himself had lent his likeness to a bunch of ATMs – Johnny Cash Machines – so it’s not like he had no sense of humour.

It was a fabulous museum following his humble beginnings to his eventual death and included all the stops along the way. I was impressed to find this included his turn as the voice of the hallucinatory dog in chilli episode of The Simpsons.

I loved Nashville. It looks like a big city, but the way they tell their stories very much feels like a small country town (plus no one put food dye in my hair).

All the major sights are linked and reference one another. For example, the Ryman Auditorium was the ‘Mother Church of Country Music’. It hosted both the Johnny Cash Show and the Grand Ole Opry. The Grand Ole Opry then left to perform in their own facility and took a circle of the Ryman stage with them when they moved. The Grand Ole Opry’s cast included superstars like Patsy Cline and Dolly Parton. Both of whom are honoured at the Country Music Hall of Fame. The intersection between all the major sites and their tributes to one another are really quite charming, and seeing them all leaves you with a really good understanding of the city’s history.

We actually toured the Grand Ole Opry and it was an interesting one. For the uninitiated, the Opry began as a live radio show of musical entertainment and was then broadcast from the Ryman Auditorium across the US. When it got too big it eventually moved to its own theatre and continues to broadcast three nights a week to this day. It is the longest running radio broadcast in America.

It also has a very official capacity as a ‘club’. There have been 200+ members inducted (all country musicians and entertainers) and some 60 them are still active participants of the Opry shows today. If you are a member, you get to come to any show you like and even pop onto the stage for an impromptu performance if the mood strikes you. New members are invited sporadically and at random. You are invited in public and without warning by another member with whom you might have a connection – a mentor, a childhood hero, for example. Then you need to officially accept the invitation by participating in you first Opry performance.

It’s a bit like a cult, actually. Only a really useful one that puts on awesome shows for people three nights a week and instead of a church or commune they have an auditorium with cool themed dressing rooms.

But it’s not a cult. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure it’s not.

Although curiously, I think actually quite like country music now. Despite the food-dye/peroxide related hair trauma of my youth I find myself quite keen to open my mind a little bit. I’ve found myself trawling through Spotify and opening up playlists such as ‘Country Kind of Love’ and ‘Hot Country Favourites’. I don’t know what’s come over me.

I’m just a singer. Elvis was the embodiment of the whole American culture.

Frank Sinatra

The other thing about Elvis, apart from the whole culture embodiment thing, is that so much has been said about him that there’s quite possibly nothing left to say.

Sweeeeeeet. Shortest post ever.

Jks.

I don’t remember the exact time Elvis came into my consciousness but I do remember learning the recorder at primary school and having ‘Wooden Heart’ in my first book of sheet music. My mum told me it was an Elvis song and that my uncle used to lock himself in a cupboard with a guitar and play that same song. It stands out as a memory less because of Elvis and more because it was a surprising revelation of a melodramatic side to my usually stoic uncle.

Then like all of us, I couldn’t help but put the pieces of Elvis together from there. The odd snippet of a daytime movie. The barrage of pop culture references to jumpsuits and peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwiches. The conspiracy theories.

It was this last point – the conspiracy theories – that I think gave me my most enduring impression of the guy. In my mind he must have been the ultimate tortured soul, otherwise why would so many people believe that he elaborately staged his own death simply to escape his life?

It makes sense that I would be preoccupied with this train of thought. Elvis died only 5 years before I was born so I think in the early stages of my life his passing and the circumstances surrounding it were still very much in the minds of the public.

So this was the expectation I took to Graceland. In my mind, it was to be a shrine to a guy who gave so much but was ultimately tortured by the arduous task of trailblazing the very essence of superstardom and celebrity for everybody that would come after him.

Well. Boy, was I wrong. Elvis might well have been a tortured soul but as is made clear from the moment you arrive, Graceland was his happy place and the whole property is a glowing tribute to a guy who loved his home, his family and who knew how to have a good time.

Graceland is a welcome respite from the speculation and the feverish adulation. From the unique approach to interior decorating, to the epic collection of toys – golf carts, horses, a purpose-built squash building – it’s simply the place that the King loved the most and this is evident in the personal touches he left all over the home.

Admittedly, these personal touches include peacock stained glass windows, yellow and navy colour schemes and green shag carpeting – ON THE WALLS – but they were his all the same, so I’m okay with it. Being there, you just get the sense that this was a young guy who thought, you know what, I’ve done okay. I’m going to treat myself. By putting what will surely be a timeless floor covering on my living room walls.

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Even if you don’t consider yourself an Elvis fan, it’s a real treat to see a home of this period so well-preserved and so untouched by the trends of the last 30-odd years. There was not a distressed brick wall or exposed beam in sight, I’m happy to report.

Needless to say, it was a big morning. The folks involved in Graceland have done an epic job of preserving and cataloguing anything and everything related to the King. My favourite artefact was a letter from a Miss Hedda Hopper, who ostensibly wrote to thank Elvis for a donation to her School for Visually Handicapped Children (one of a plethora of charitable acts, apparently), but who also informs Elvis that she’s taken up The Twist:

It is the best exercise I have found. I have taken one inch off my waist and two off my fanny. Now I know how you keep so thin.

Picturing Miss Hedda Hopper working up a sweat doing the twist in her living room was quite possibly the best part of the Graceland experience.

On the weekend, mum and dad took us on a long drive to a place called Woodend. We went there to go to a jukebox auction. We bought a jukebox. When we got it home, mum and dad turned off the money bit so you don’t even need coins. My favourite song is ‘Leader of the Pack’ by the Shangri-Las.

True story.

At the time, I genuinely thought this was a thing that parent-type people did; go for a drive one random weekend and buy a secondhand jukebox. It was only much later that I asked myself, “What on earth possessed my parents to do that!?”

I’m still not exactly sure, but it was a Rock-Ola model 433 and it was the best.

We got to play whatever music we wanted and we knew where the secret cancel button was if someone picked something rubbish. Our friends loved coming over and playing it (as did their parents) and we had some awesome parties with the jukebox providing the soundtrack. We rummaged through op shops and trash and treasure markets for the elusive record singles it played. It was such a thrill to actually find a few. And when we did, we took them home, catalogued them and typed up a title strip to slide into the display window.

Later mum and dad got a pool table and darts board too so the jukebox lived in the poolroom. It was sort of like the best man cave ever, only better because we all got to play there and the whole idea wasn’t rooted in toxic masculinity.

The thing is, I realise now that the very best thing about that jukebox was the invaluable musical education it gave my sister and me. Absolutely priceless.

So when we got to Memphis we headed straight for Sun Studio which is considered by many to be the birthplace of rock and roll. Walking through the doors, I felt intimidated. Not because of the calibre entertainer that had passed through them before me but because I felt like a bit of a poser. I didn’t know much about Sun Studio, only what I’d read in my dog-eared Lonely Planet, and I was dreading having to feign recognition when the guide inevitably started rattling off the musical names associated with the place’s history.

I thought it might be a bit like that time we went to Florence and went to about forty famous art galleries and museums before we realised we know nothing about art or European history.

But, that wasn’t the case at all this time. Aside from the administrative characters associated with Sun Studio, I had a pretty good strike rate of recognition. No posing for this little tourist, just enthusiastic nods of recognition.

And it made me realise what a good job my folks had done of educating me in all eras of music and in encouraging me to enjoy and appreciate music that had come years before me. Elvis recorded ‘That’s All Right (Mama)’ at Sun Studio in 1954 and the fact that this music remains relevant to me today makes me feel totally warm and fuzzy inside.

I’m not suggesting every artist I know passed through that old Rock-Ola, but the fun we had listening to old music on that thing certainly gave me a taste for different styles of music. More than that, it gave me a fundamental understanding that there is value and reward in looking back and in preservation.

This is my absolute favourite thing about travelling. That thing that happens when you take the time to venture out and try something new, and the connections your mind makes when you’re trying to make sense of it all. In my case it was realising how lucky I am to have parents who not only exposed me to all kinds of music growing up, but who created such happy memories in my childhood. Memories that suddenly come flooding back standing in front of a tour guide at a 78-year-old Memphis recording studio.

Here’s the thing about football: I’ve never…. really…. got it. If you’ve ever read any of my previous blogs you’ll know that I’ve spent a good portion of my typed words talking about football, specifically, rugby league, so this may come as some surprise. Permit me to explain.

I am not an athlete. I have never been interested in playing sport. I avoided it at all costs. And I have always found the experience of not being athletic to be an alienating one, which I assume is not uncommon. It could be why so many people gravitate to sport as spectators. Those who can’t do….watch?

As I kid I bonded with my dad over a love of the Melbourne Demons (Aussie Rules, for those requiring translation). But looking back, I think my love of that experience was more about time with my family. My cousins were all Dees supporters too and I have some really fond memories watching games together. Aside from that, (and one particularly striking nude photo of Stephen Tingay in the Herald Sun circa 2000), I don’t have many of memories of the specifics. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about an appreciation of the sport itself.

Lived on my bedroom wall until exposure from the sun over many years faded it away.

Fast forward to 2003 when I meet Hoff, who was a rugby league player and had never dreamt of being anything else. The only one more surprised than me that I have ended up married to a professional athlete would probably be childhood me. Or maybe my mum.

In those early days, I was well and truly a rugby league convert. I went to every game, I devoured every news story and I made a concerted effort to understand the sport and all its nuances.

But, as Hoff and I grew more and more serious, my relationship with sport became more and more problematic. Rugby league, went from being “that thing we do on the weekends”, to “that thing that controls our lives, determines where we live, what we do most days and our livelihood”. Sixteen years of being involved at a personal level is enough to give anyone a slightly different viewpoint, I think, particularly for someone like me who never really understood it in the first place.

All that said, I had an absolute ball at Monday Night Football in Green Bay. Go figure.

We went to Green Bay with the sole purpose of attending a Green Bay Packers home game. It was a bucket list item for Hoff and far be it from me to stand in the way of lifelong dreams.

We kicked off the experience with a tailgate event, which started a couple of hours before the game. It was incredible. So many people, so much food, so many drinks and not a shot measurer in sight. Eek.

Honestly, these people know how to do football. There were people everywhere and such a joyous vibe about the place, that it was hard not to be excited (even though I could only name one player on the whole team and even then only when I was standing behind Hoff wearing his jersey with said name on it.)

The attire was a site to behold too. Cheese wedge hats (which had me lamenting the finite space in my suitcase), green and yellow pinstripe suits and so many Packers jerseys that I was beginning to think they were compulsory town uniform. From the minute we got up that morning we barely saw a person – working in a professional capacity or not – who was not wearing one.

Hoff insisted on wearing his as soon as he purchased it at 10 o’clock in the morning

And holy hell was it cold. We’d been keeping an eye on the weather in the lead up to our trip and feeling grateful that it wasn’t looking too bad, then the day after we arrived a cold front blew through the mid-west and knocked about fifteen degrees Celsius off the mercury overnight. We’ve been cold ever since. Green Bay was absolutely no exception. I was so cold that I purchased a lovely pair of gloves, which I think really bring out the colour in my eyes.

I also chose to combat the cold by donning my ‘whiskey jacket’, which actually proved to be pretty effective (thank goodness for Americans and their generous pours). Also, thank goodness for the 80,000-odd other people who attended this game. It made for a cozy walk to the stadium and a good amount of body heat once we were there.

(I was less excited about the number of people at the game when I went to the loo at one point and genuinely got lost on my way back to my seat. Dammit, Hoffman, if there’s one sports-related thing you’re supposed to be good at after 16 years of professional fandom then stadium navigation should really be it.)

It was a good game too, I’m told. I can read a scoreboard and so obviously I know that the Packers won, but that’s about the sum total of my understanding of how it all went down. You get to yell ‘First Down’ every now and again, which has something to do with yards gained, but as I’m not exactly sure what a yard is either that doesn’t really help me much. Metric all the way, baby.

So even though I am a bit of a sportaphobe, I’ll always be grateful for having had this once in a lifetime experience. Not only was it all kinds of fun, I got to forget all my hang-ups about sport and just be a fan. (Coldest, least knowledgeable fan ever, but a fan just the same).

The only thing I knew about Wisconsin I learned on our previous trip to the States. I saw a man sitting in a bar watching football with a hat on his head shaped like a badger and a ‘cover’ on his butt shaped like cheese. He was essentially a badger-headed cheese butt. Being late October at the time, I asked Hoff what Halloween costume he thought old mate was going for and Hoff simply says, “oh nah, he’s just from Wisconsin.”

Apparently, Green Bay Packers fans are sometimes called ‘cheeseheads’ and one of the college teams up there are the Badgers, so there you go. Looking at this odd dude with his badger hat and cheese butt, I knew Wisconsin was a place I’d need to visit one day.

That day came on Sunday when we picked up a car and headed north, to Green Bay.

Whenever I plan a trip, I do the adult thing and select dates that work for everyone: children, employers, child-lookerafterers, it’s a rich tapestry. Whenever Hoff plans a trip, he looks at said dates and sniffs out any professional sport that may be being played in the vicinity. On this occasion, there just so happened to be a Green Bay Packers home game a mere 3.5 hours away. Apparently, this is a big deal. For Hoff, it was big enough to re-route our entire trip and devote two days (and a fair chunk of the trip budget) to the getting there.

So we hit the road for another stint in the car with my trusty itinerary for stop offs along the way.

Pleasant Prairie saw us tour the Jelly Belly Factory and get free jelly beans for our trouble – score. I also now know more about the manufacture of jelly beans than perhaps anyone outside the confectionery industry ever should. We got free hats too.

Our next stop was the Mars Cheese Castle, so-called I guess because of the state’s infatuation with cheese and anything of the dairy-related nature. It was a cool place with heaps of great local groceries, beer and deli items. Plus now I know where old mate probably got his cheese butt. Blessed are the cheese-makers indeed.

Back in the car for a vastly more sensible stop – the Wind Point Lighthouse in Racine, which looks over Lake Michigan. Up until this point Hoff and I had been sniggering whenever locals referred to Lake Michigan’s shore as a ‘coast’. It’s a shore, not a coast. Chicago even has a neighbourhood called the Gold Coast, so named for its proximity to the shore of Lake Michigan and because of some convoluted story about how some rich dudes built their houses there. Unlike our Gold Coast which is presumably so named because it’s actually a coast and it’s kind of gold-looking. Anyway, the sniggering stopped when we saw how big Lake Michigan truly is. It might as well be the ocean, so ‘coast’ might be an apt descriptor after all.

Our final stop of the day took some sleuthing. I’d read that in 1962 a bit of space junk crashed landed to earth outside an art gallery in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. It later turned out to be a bit of the Russian’s Sputnik IV and the actual site is marked by a very nondescript brass ring embedded into the road, and a modest plaque on the nature strip. It took us four laps of the block before we spotted it.

Apart from being a quirky stop on my ‘itinerary of kitsch’, as Hoff has taken to calling it, the space junk site also proved to be a good excuse to visit the county that is infamous for being the setting of ‘Making a Murderer’. I have some moral reservations about sticky-beaking around sites that are related true crime because I know there are very real victims, but man is it hard to switch off your inner rubber-neck. So we may or may not have toured the justice-related sites of Manitowoc County, but we assuaged our guilt by winding down the windows and loudly debating the location of the space junk to anyone who may have been within earshot. That way they’d think we were space nerds and not true crime ghouls (which is only marginally preferable, probably).

My last job of the day was to steel myself for what was to be an onslaught of sport for the duration of our next stop – Green Bay. Hoff is a veritable encyclopaedia of international sports knowledge and American football is no exception. In fact it’s a specialty. We’ve been together for 15-odd years now and I’ve always prided myself on my authentic-seeming engagement with Hoff’s running commentary and rattling off of facts, which he does with increased speed and frequency, the more excited he gets. So excuse me while I nibble on some cheese and Google fan chants in our hotel room. Go, Pack, go.